Sweet Tooth [HS]

FORTY NINE

At 1:04 in the morning, Harry was woken up by his phone vibrating.

He groaned, barely lifting his heavy head from the pillow as he groped around for the device on his bedside table.

Eventually, after nearly knocking over the lamp, his hand came into contact with the cool metal of the phone, and he crept his eyes slowly open as he brought it closer to his face.

He blinked, blinked again at the screen. Shook his head to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Because he was staring at a picture of Max, the one that made her look like an angel. He'd taken it years ago at some ridiculous hour of the morning, when she'd just woken up- or maybe they hadn't gone to sleep, and they were sitting out on her balcony as they had always done. The sunrise was behind her, lighting up her edges in orange and gold, and it sort of made her glow, made her shine. And she was smiling, had her eyes all crinkled up and her head tipped all the way back and her teeth were poking out over her lips.

And yes, she looked like an angel. And for some reason, Harry was looking at her now.

It took a long few seconds for him to realise it was because she was phoning him. This was his contact photo for her.

Max was fucking phoning him.

He didn't even take a breath before he answered.

"Max?" He sort of gasped as his chest suddenly started heaving.

"Harrrryy!" She cheered down the line, and Harry could hear voices in the background. Heard a faint pulse of music. Could make out laughter, shouting, maybe a bottle smashing.

And then when she slurred something completely incoherent down the line, that's when all the dots connected.

Because Max wasn't phoning him because she missed him, or because she wanted to hear him out, or because she cared.

No, she was phoning him because she was drunk.

It sort of felt like a hard fist as the realisation sank into his gut, but yet, still, Harry's weak heart began leaping inside his chest. The words Lexie had hurled at him- the maybe probable possible fact that Max loved him- they echoed around his skull, bounced down into his heart and stayed alive there. Because although Max was only drunk dialling him, she was at least talking to him. And she really, truly maybe, might love him.

And so a timid, sort of pathetic hope started filling up his insides.

"You're drunk, Max." He said, but his voice was soft, gentle.

"Oo so serious." She said, and then she started laughing again, and Harry thought it sounded like a song.

"Why are you calling me, Max? Are you OK?"

"Yesss," she replied, and Harry didn't miss the way she slurred the word.

Because yes, Max was drunk, but right now she sounded, like, really drunk. She was bloody calling him for Christsake. And Harry sat upright, suddenly felt worry creeping into his body, weighing down his shoulders. Because the last time Max was this gone, she'd ended up wedged against a sink by some fucking bloke who was ready to take full advantage of her.